


All Different Grace

by hayspecks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Is So Done, M/M, Very Brief Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayspecks/pseuds/hayspecks
Summary: In which there's one annoyed John Watson, a murder and four silk shirts. Not necessarily in that order.





	All Different Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on livejournal back in 2011.

Sherlock didn’t care about _decent_ ; apparently, he didn’t do _subtle_ a whole lot either, well, _never_ , in fact. John could put up with his strange ways; he had been doing that for months after all.

But this –

(The girl in the purple dress, crying on the side of the street, hugging her slender frame after she had found her boyfriend dead on the living room’s floor)

– Right here, right now –

(Sherlock’s been asking question after question about her dead _boyfriend_ – even about his body, _oh God_ – not caring that she’s crying, clearly in shock, and he even had the decency to look frustrated with the lack of coherent answers)

Was too much for John. He got a warm orange blanket from the paramedics and walked right up to the girl, placed the blanket around her shoulders and pulled her aside. She went quite willingly, grateful for the change of attitude towards her grief and buried her head in the crook of his neck.

Sherlock stopped him, though, wrapping his hand around his wrist. John glared at the taller man.

“It’s important.”

“Don’t.”

“John.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the murder. She saw her own boyfriend lying dead in front of her for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t –”

“Think, Sherlock. What if you had found, um, me, for example, dead? What then? Would it not affect you at all?”

He was only met with a silence. The hand eased its grip and then slipped away completely. “Thought so,” he murmured, and turned away from Sherlock, anger twisting inside his chest. His hand patted her head with jerky awkward movements, not used to the display of such emotions. He stayed with her until she calmed down, and then Lestrade came, saying something about her going with the police and he stepped aside to let her go.

Sherlock had already disappeared somewhere before John hailed a cab and went home. Not that John cared right now.

-

When John returned to the flat, Sherlock was already there, reading a newspaper, which he folded and put in his lap upon noticing John hovering in the doorway.

“I made you tea. Exactly how you like it. It must be still warm.” Sherlock gestured with his left hand broadly as if it explained everything he didn’t say. But John was surprised when he noticed the cup of tea. After all he had never seen Sherlock make tea, not once. He was still annoyed at him, though.

He nodded in acknowledgment, Sherlock watching him like a hawk, and stiffly shed his jacket and threw it on the armchair. The tea to which Sherlock had been referring sat right beside his laptop, in the only free space on the table. John had been meaning to clean up the mess but he had never gotten around to doing so.

“The girl is important to the case.” Sherlock suddenly spoke, and John turned around sharply.

“And why’s that, mind telling me that?” He was acting too cold towards Sherlock, he knew; but the annoyance and anger that had been prickling around the edges ever since their last conversation was aggravated again by the way Sherlock picked up the topic again so easily. In a way he knew the _whys_ and _hows_ of Sherlock’s actions and all the ways he was different to other people, but this – allowing the anger to speak for itself was easier than letting it go. For now at least.

“She knew almost everything about her boyfriend,” Sherlock replied eventually. “If anything, she probably knows the reason why the criminals are after them only not realizes it. The criminals may try to go after her, so she must be watched closely. She is, in fact.”

“ _Oh_ ,” John was annoyed. “So you now – _brilliant_ … I just – you know what? Never mind. Just never mind. I’ll stay at Sarah’s for the night.” John turned away and hastily fetched his jacket, not once looking at Sherlock. He needed space and he needed it now. This wasn’t how he was supposed to react, he knew, but something about this whole situation just – he didn’t even know to explain it. And he didn’t want to.

He slammed the door on his way out, though, to get his point across.

-

It was only around noon when John returned a long conversation with Sarah, an uncomfortable night’s sleep on the couch, breakfast and a good long walk later. He felt a lot better, as well as could be expected with a case unsolved and he and Sherlock, at least on his part, still at odds.

When John walked in, Sherlock was curled in his armchair, playing a soft tune on the violin. John noted that he wore the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday, only more rumpled. John had a sneaking suspicion he hadn’t slept, but he rarely did when they had a case, so it most probably had nothing to do with him.

“Better?” Sherlock asked over the music.

John shrugged, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, probably didn’t see the gesture, so he chose to answer verbally as well. “Yes.”

“Okay.” And that was that. Sherlock shifted, glanced up and eventually stood up to put the violin back in its case. When he straightened up, he turned to John and said, “We have a lead. Last night a man tried to break into the flat. There must be something we’ve overlooked before.”

No wonder why he looked so rumpled then. John didn’t want to follow him, though. Let him have all the fun this time, he decided.

Sherlock stopped once he was fully dressed, gloves clutched in his right hand, and his eyes locked with John’s. “You’re coming with me, are you not? I’d be lost with my favourite blogger.”

It didn’t faze John much. “You’re perfectly capable of doing everything by yourself,” John answered sulkily before he got control over his mouth. He looked away.

“ _John_.” Sherlock had _that_ tone _again_ , like he was between caught between exasperated and fond and like he had half a mind to tell John that he was being really foolish.

He probably was. “Alright. _Alright._ I’m coming but you better buy me dinner later.”

“Done.” Sherlock smiled self-satisfied like a cat. “And, oh, take your gun.”

“What? Why? No – never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ll just – go and fetch my gun.” John was about to climb upstairs when Sherlock broke the silence again.

“John, it’s on the kitchen table.”

“It’s on the kitchen – what? Oh never mind. Just –” John stopped himself before he said something really stupid or accused Sherlock of misuse of his gun and possibly opened the floodgates on all his other complaints as well (the list was getting kind of long).

Eventually, he found the gun lying almost on the edge, beside a glass full of something green, which he really didn’t want to identify. By the time John had put his jacket on and secured the gun, Sherlock had already gone ahead and hailed a cab for the both of them.

-

The victim’s flat looked almost the same as it did a day ago. There were signs of a forced entry; the living room was a total mess. When John noticed the stains on the carpet and the half-empty glass of water, he realized that everything had been left as it was, except for the body that had been removed.

He looked around, suddenly unsure because this was Sherlock’s kind of thing and he normally just tagged along, offered his point of view on things and hoped for the best. Which usually wasn’t the way he had planned things to end (he had been using the gun more times than he could count lately, not that he complained; they both knew that he needed it), but he’d like a break from the routine.

John was shaken out of his thoughts when Sherlock purposefully strode to the bedroom and yanked the closet door open. John followed him, perplexed as to what Sherlock was doing until he saw the man smile. John could’ve bet money that Sherlock had found _something_ that just helped to solve the case.

“Give me your hand. I want you to feel this.” Sherlock gestured with his left hand from John to come and stand right beside him. John reluctantly followed his order and when he was within arm’s reach, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and moved it towards his chest.

John gulped. He had no idea where this was going but it was making his thoughts leave the safe territory he had made himself to avoid any awkward conversations or explanations, because Sherlock would definitely notice. He averted his eyes and felt his hand make a contact with Sherlock’s shirt, felt the surprisingly soft material under his open palm.

“How does it feel?” Sherlock asked after a short period of time and when John made no sound to actually answer, he added, “The material, John. The _material._ ” He sounded exasperated and far too knowing for John’s liking.

John ignored it, though, for the sake of his own sanity and the last bits of self control he had left. “It feels sort of like silk, but I’m certain that it’s not. Is it?”

“You’re correct. And now this.” Sherlock moved their hands towards the closet and John had to touch the green button-up on the hanger. It was surprisingly silky and looked damn expensive.

“Silk. I think. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, though he didn’t let go of John’s hand, thumb absently caressing the inside of his wrist.

John decided to just ignore it, the closeness – everything and continued to talk. “Okay, so that’s definitely very expensive and by the looks of it they’re not wealthy enough to afford…” he quickly counted the shirts, “…four shirts unless they had won a lottery or had a lot of money stashed away somewhere we didn’t know – Wait, maybe it’s stolen. The money, I mean. Would explain the break in even after his death.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “and there is a big chance that the murderer didn’t find the money when he was here during the night.” Sherlock let go of John’s hand as an afterthought.

“Not that I see any signs, but you may be right. Like always.” John was close to sounding sulky, which he definitely never did, so he shut up quickly.

He wasn’t jealous of Sherlock. He really, really _wasn’t._ It was just he should’ve slept more last night, his back hurt from sleeping on the couch and, okay, the events of the previous day might be playing some part in it, too.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock agreed with a smile. “And he will be back tonight.”

And that was that. Sherlock strode straight for the outdoor. John was left dumbfounded. Sometimes John just didn’t get Sherlock and this was one of the times. It was damn frustrating that there was something possibly glaring him in the face, almost close to wearing a sparkly neon sign with _look at me_ printed all over it, but he simply didn’t notice it.

He quickly glanced about (nope, still saw no signs) and quickly followed Sherlock out. “How do you know?”

Sherlock sighed but said nothing on the matter. It was slightly unusual, given that Sherlock liked to explain things to John.

“Let’s pay a visit to Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“Girlfriend.”

John frowned.

“The deceased’s girlfriend, John.”

-

Upon entering the building John simply didn’t like the nagging feeling that maybe Sherlock didn’t realize he had taken them to the completely wrong place and had to point out, “I thought you said we’ll were visiting Lucy. This is Lestrade’s office, in case you haven’t noticed in your insomnia.”

“I’m not insomniac. I simply choose not to sleep when I have a case.” Sherlock completely ignored the first part of the sentence and kept on climbing up the stairs, John hot on his heels.

“Of course, you do, but it won’t be my fault if you drop unconscious in the middle of crime scene.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A case doesn’t take me that long.”

“Cocky much,” John murmured mostly to himself. Sherlock, of course, heard that and raised an eyebrow. John shrugged as if saying what. When they actually arrived at Lestrade’s office, Lucy was already there, sitting in one of the chairs.

Upon seeing Sherlock in the doorway, she lost the last bit of the smile on her face.

“We have a few questions to ask.”

John held back a comment, hands clenching in fists by his sides. He was back to square one.

Sherlock glanced at John briefly, as if sensing his discomfort. John shrugged. The entire exchange wasn’t lost on Lestrade who had yet to say something. Sherlock took the resigned silence as the invitation it probably was.

“Lucy, did your boyfriend mention anything about getting a lot of money recently?”

“He – I don’t remember.” She averted her eyes from Sherlock’s scrutiny. John sat down opposite her and put a reassuring hand on her knee.

John knew how hard it was to lose your loved one, and it was even harder to see it happen – or in Lucy’s case see the dead body. And it wasn’t just a theoretical knowledge on John’s part.

“It’s okay. Maybe, you noticed something strange. Just think about it. Every little detail could help.”

She smiled faintly at him, and he smiled right back, hoping as hell he was being reassuring. “He said that soon we’d live like royals. Though, I don’t think he was serious about it.”

“It proves my hypothesis.”

“Wha – what are talking about?” She asked.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just thinking aloud. Did you have any debts?”

“We had, but we had paid them weeks ago already.”

“Was there any reason to take another debt?”

“No, there wasn’t. Michael liked to gamble sometimes but lately he hadn’t played – he promised.” John saw Lestrade and Sherlock exchange looks. He ignored them. “He said that we won’t live like this any longer -” She stopped, eyes welling with tears she tried but failed to suppress the tears. “I just – it’s really painful, you know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“I’ve gone through that as well.” Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John and he knew the questions would come, later.

“I didn’t mean to – ah, this all is so hard.”

“It’s alright. We’ll catch the killer; make sure he won’t leave the prison for a very time.” John stood up and they both walked out the office. And once the door was safely shut behind them, John growled. “We’re going to get that fucker.”

Sherlock didn’t agree or disagree, but he could see he was thirsty for the thrill of a chase.

-

The chase turned out to be really short. Precisely, it was nonexistent. The criminal thought it was better to attack than to be attacked or something along those lines. At least, that’s what John gathered. If he were the criminal he’d be half way across the continent by now, if he knew Sherlock was after him.

It wasn’t the case here. As it was, they were taken by surprise. Punches were thrown. John got _tackled_ (yes, _really_ ), and he couldn’t do much but throw punches himself and kick. It earned a few painful yelps, which was good, because he got the upper-hand.

Sherlock was doing much better than him. After a few precise kicks and punches Sherlock’s attacker was out cold. John couldn’t say that about his, but he was trying. If only it wasn’t so bloody difficult.

“Hey, you fight like a girl,” Sherlock announced and the man turned around, enraged.

“What di-” The man started to say but Sherlock lifted his hands up straight to his temples and hit hard. The man dropped down unconscious.

John was amazed.

Sherlock strode right up to him, checking him for any visible injuries.

“Sherlock, I’m fine.” It was mostly true; the attacker hadn’t been able to do anything because John had efficiently blocked most of his punches, except for one that had caught his side.

“No, you’re not.” Sherlock held up John’s hand, inspecting his bruised knuckles.

John sighed, trying to mask the warm feeling spread from Sherlock’s touch. “You know what I meant.”

“If you say so.” Sherlock dropped his hand. “I’m calling Lestrade.”

-

As it happened the case was wrapped up rather quickly, since one of the attackers turned out to be the killer. Though, John had to stay a little longer while a paramedic bandaged his knuckles and Sherlock talked to Lestrade, a small crooked smile gracing his lips. John assumed he was satisfied with the results.

About a minute later, after John had assured Sherlock he wasn’t suffering any other injuries, Sherlock walked up to him, hands in his coat’s pockets.

“Ready?”

“Very.” John smiled, got off the ambulance car and followed Sherlock. A few beats of silence followed when John remembered, “You know, you still owe me a dinner.”

“That I do.”

-

And that’s how they ended up at Bart’s, sitting down at a table close to the window.

After they had ordered food and the waiter had left, Sherlock leaned in, eyeing John intently. John had a feeling he knew what it was about.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Sherlock asked casually.

John shrugged and swallowed the bite of bread he had just taken. “Do we need to?”

“You may want to set me straight.”

“There’s nothing to tell you may not have figured out already.” John looked away.

“I see.” Sherlock put John’s cell phone, which he had taken from him sometime earlier, on the table, fiddled with it, a gesture that was not entirely Sherlock’s. “That’s why you’re so hesitant to allow our relationship change into more than this.”

“It’s – no, _no,_ Sherlock, _this_ -” John gestured between them with a fork, “Whatever this is, has nothing to do with it. _Nothing._ ”

A one side of Sherlock’s mouth lifted up in a crooked smile. He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately and wiped off a crumb from John’s face right beside his mouth. John’s eyes widened, but only a little and nothing was said on the matter for the rest of the dinner.

But then Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist on the doorstep of their flat and kissed him for the whole London to see, which was what told John that he was serious about it. And that was that.


End file.
